Hate is Thicker Than Blood (20 page)

Now he had a grip, and in another moment the knife was at work again, cutting through the top, and now he brought his other
hand up, and pulled himself to where he could open the top enough to drop his body through. The rain was beginning to slacken,
but the noise of it plus the engine were still probably enough to keep Gina from hearing him. Besides, if he were right about
the small splash he thought he’d heard, she no longer had a gun.

They were two miles away from the highway when he plunged through the top of the car. Gina’s eyes went wide. “You!”

“Stop the car, Gina. It’s all over.”

“I shot you! I killed you!”

“Only right the first time, Gina. Now, stop.”

“No!”

“Gina, I’ll do everything I can for you, I swear…”

“No! I want to die!”

He saw her pull at the wheel, saw the car swerve off the road, dove over her, grabbing at the wheel, the car bumping and crashing,
plunging down … something … an embankment of some sort … and then suddenly, his hands were flung off the wheel and he felt
himself flying, floating, the world exploding around him … and then, abruptly, heard nothing more, saw nothing more.

It was a cough. A dry cough. There it went again, annoyingly piercing the veil that shrouded him, the black, all-muffling
veil, that even now was shredding, opening up. Gray. Only Mr. Gray coughed like that. Hesitantly, insinuatingly, annoyingly.

His eyes came slowly open, then shut, then opened again, this time a little wider. He knew where he was now. A hospital room.
He’d survived.

He came completely out of it.
He’d
survived. But
Gina?

“Ah! Bill! Glad to see you’re awake!” Gray was staring down at him, uneasily. Being in a situation where you were supposed
to show compassion didn’t come naturally to Gray.

“How’d I wind up here?” Lockwood asked, raising his hand tentatively to his head. The whole top of it, he found, was covered
by a thick bandage.

“You were in a New Jersey hospital. I had them transfer you here, where you’d be—ah, more comfortable.”

And more convenient to Gray, no doubt.

“Okay. How’d I get in the New Jersey hospital?”

“They found you on the banks of the Hackensack River. Your car had crashed down the embankment, but you’d apparently been
thrown clear, through the roof. You had a concussion, but you’ll be all right in a few days. Also a flesh wound from a bullet
in your side … how did that…?”

“And Gina?” Lockwood cut through, disregarding Gray’s question.

“Gina? Ah. The girl who was with you?” Gray asked uneasily. “I’m afraid—she was killed. Crushed behind the wheel.”

Lockwood was silent, and Gray coughed again. “Ah, I’d been wanting to ask you, Lockwood. She had no identification on her.
This, ah, Gina—she wouldn’t have been Gina Lomenzo, the Nuzzo relative?”

The detective eyed Gray coldly. “Yes,” he said, finally.

“Ah. Ah.” Gray had the pince-nez out, fiddling with them, fingers jumping about spasmodically. “Then that would mean—”

“That all the heirs named in the policy are dead. That Transatlantic Underwriters gets off free and clear. Satisfied?”

“Ah. Ah. Um. Yes. Yes, a good job, Bill. The Board of Directors will be pleased.”

Lockwood looked at him and said nothing. The Board of Directors would be pleased. Gina was dead. Gina, who more than any woman
he’d met, had shown such promise, such strength. And yet … he must have been mad. A killer. She’d been a killer, even when
he’d first met her. He hadn’t read her right. That was the whole answer. And yet he knew he had. Gina. There’d never be another
like her. If only somehow he’d been able to….

That cough again. Gray was looking tentative, uncomforable with the silence.

“Well, ah, I think I’d better go now, Bill. I’m sure you need your rest.”

Lockwood looked up at him, saying nothing, and Gray thrust a package forward. “Here. I brought this for you. A little gift.”
Gray suddenly spun and headed awkwardly to the door. A muttered goodby, a wave, and he was gone.

The Hook eyed the package curiously. A gift from Mr. Gray. Rather out of character. Slowly he tore the paper off, and found
he’d been given a carton of cigarettes. He read the label, and realized the gift was not that out of character after all for
his tight-fisted employer. The cigarettes were Wings.

THE HOOK

“The Hook” is William Lockwood, ace insurance investigator for Transatlantic Underwriters—a man whose name derives from his
World War I boxing exploits, whose hallmark is class, whose middle name is violence, and whose signature is sex. In the late
1930s, when law enforcement was rough-and-tumble, The Hook is the perfect take-charge man for any job. He combines legal and
military training with a network of contacts across America who honor his boxing legend. He’s a debonair man-about-town, a
bachelor with an awesome talent for women—and a deadly weapon in one-on-one confrontations. Crossing America and Europe in
pursuit of perpetrators of insurance fraud, The Hook finds himself in the middle of organized crime, police corruption, and
terrorism. The Hook—gentleman detective with a talent for violence and a taste for sex.

THE GIRL FROM COSTA NOSTRA

claims she’s a lady

with her precious virtue intact.

Seems she’s saving it for Mr. Right.

But somebody’s wrong.

Her bedroom eyes are clearly telling lies and her body’s ripe for the picking.

Too bad her big sister’s just been murdered, and

most of the old neighborhood keeps showing up in concrete overshoes.

THE HOOK

will take over from here.

He’s Bill Lockwood, insurance dick. Manhattan 1938.Educated by debs from Sutton Place and the whores of World War I. Under his tux he packs a revolver; his Silver Cord is full of bullet holes. And someone’s trying to run him off the road.